A Lot Like Never
by Nymbis
Summary: AU/DoFP Spoilers. For the last three years, Pyro has gone to bed in a sterilized cell after a lab tears him open and puts him back together. In the morning he wakes up, makes sure Rogue's still alive in the cell across from him, and it starts again. But today is different. Today, John wakes up in a dorm room. Turns out there can be second chances. Rogue/Pyro. Rating may go up.
1. An Ending: Rogue

**AN: **What good is DOFP if we can't screw with continuity, right? AU from events of the movies (instead of having the timeline reset around X3, it resets towards the beginning of X2), and based largely on speculation in regards to Rogue's cut subplot in DOFP. Eventual Rogue/Pyro, with residual Rogue/Bobby

**A Lot Like Never**

_**Part One: An Ending  
**_**Rogue**

**In the not too distant future…**

She's a powdered keg of dynamite, and no one knows how long the fuse is going to be.

It's hard to stop watching the news as it blares throughout the rec room, but Rogue tells herself it's for the best if she does. She's been telling herself that for the last few hours, as CNN keeps circulating around its biggest, breaking news:

_Update! Boy in El Salvador accidentally ignites supermarket-_

_Breaking! Woman in Britain suffers mental breakdown after psychic powers re-emerge-_

_Newsflash! Man in Russia kills self, three others after mutant powers reactivate-_

Rogue folds her legs against her chest, and wraps her arms around her shins. As if having that added layer of a physical barrier is enough to make reality go away. She rests her chin on her knees, brown eyes unmoving from the screen as story after story goes reported.

_Just In! A-list actor Chad Core exposed as a mutant at film premiere after the Cure-_

_Update! Confirmed 11 dead, seventeen injured in El Salvadorian supermarket explosion-_

She should get up. Do laundry. Make coffee.

_Breaking! The President of the United States has formed an emergency meeting of his cabinet to discuss-_

Maybe finish her essay. She was still trying to make it through the Institute's college courses. Rogue had once entertained the thought of applying outside of the state for college, maybe going back home in the South, but after Alcatraz she couldn't leave. Not in good conscience. Not after Dr. Grey and Mr. Summers and Dr. Xavier. Not when Logan was…in whatever place Logan was. So she'd thought she'd stick around, get things right at the Institute. Maybe leave in a year or two, for a while. Maybe finally see Alaska.

But now she was a powder keg. And there were little boys exploding in super markets.

_-Prime Minister is proclaiming crisis-_

_-Chad Core banned from upcoming Cannes Film Festival-_

Rogue rubbed her fingers together. They were dry, or at least, they felt dry. Part of wearing gloves nearly nonstop for a decade was that it was hard comparing the feel of skin to silk. She'd just started wearing rings. Maybe she could give them to Jubilee, or Kitty. Rings weren't any good under cloth. She traced a finger pad over one of her nails. Maybe she'd paint them before it was over. Some ridiculously bright color, like turquoise.

_Poll: What should be done about mutants in America in light of Cure's failure? 67% support mandatory registration-_

She should really get up and make some coffee.

_Riots in Vancouver today over the recent decision to implement what's being called a "mutant police force"-_

"Turn this crap off, kid."

Rogue's eyes sluggishly drifted from the screen to Logan. He was standing to the side of the couch, and judging by the crossed over arms and the raised eyebrow, he'd been there awhile. Rogue plastered on a smile, hating how practiced it was.

"What? You don't want to hear the news?"

Logan snorted, half-sitting on the sofa's armrest, "It's not news."

_Mutant terrorist group still at large-_

His voice changed. It became lower or softer, "How long you been sitting here?"

Rogue closed her eyes, "A while," she admitted.

"Since this morning?"

"I got up at four."

Logan looked at his watch, shook his head, "You know it's almost noon, right?"

She said nothing, only tilted her head down so her forehead rested on her knees.

"C'mon, get up."

_Could the Cure have been a plan by mutant terrorists-_

"Just another minute-"

_Mutants or monsters?-_

Rolling his eyes, Logan walked over to the television and stabbed through the side of it with a short punch of his clawed hand. The words died on the perfectly coiffed anchor's lips in a short blip of the power cutting out and a shower of sparks. Logan retracted his claws.

Rogue stared at him, open-mouthed.

He rose an eyebrow.

"Now you don't have an excuse to sit around moping all day."

_Takes one to know one_, came a petulant voice in her head. She wasn't sure who it belonged to, but a small part of her agreed with it, "Y'know Ms. Munroe'll make you pay for that."

"I got a tab."

"For busted TVs?"

"It's an inclusive tab. Now let's go break shit in the Danger Room. It'll be good for you. Exercise. Or something."

Rogue sighed, sending a last stare to the television before following Logan out. He probably needed it more than her.

* * *

So Rogue tried her best to stop watching the news. But news travelled regardless. The air was thick with tension at the Institute, only getting worse as the weeks rolled by and the news stories grew more and more frantic. As more students started getting pulled out of school by their parents. As the seats around the table gradually emptied, like some perverse game of musical chairs.

She remembers a time where supper was an _event_. Lorna would make her cutlery dance across the table and Piotr would watch the demonstration with an uneasy stare. Kitty would ramble about a software program she was working on, and Bobby'd responded with polite questions as he'd squeeze Rogue's knee under the table, sending smiles her way when she looked over at him. Ms. Munroe would chastise John as he'd click his lighter, because apparently steak needed to be charbroiled. He'd flip the top of his zippo open over and over until he was sure she'd rolled his eyes at him at least once, before he'd grin and stop.

But now, supper felt like a countdown. Lorna got sent home. Piotr took dinner in his rooms alone. Kitty's computer had been trashed when she had to phase away from rioters and she'd had it in her backpack. Bobby's hand would hesitate over her, like a man trapped, where any gesture he'd make would be the wrong one. And no one knew where the hell John was after Alcatraz. After Alkai.

And she was back to being a powdered keg.

A month or two after Logan blew up the television, just when she was learning to tune out the news and keep her shock of white hair under a hat, Rogue came home from the supermarket to see graffiti plastered over the gates of her home.

**MUTANT SCUM**

**DIE, FREAKS**

**YOU CANT HIDE 4EVER**

**TERRORISTS**

And, because she couldn't think of anything else to do, she walked past the signs, and calmly put her groceries in their allotted places once she was inside. Then, she walked to her room, and she put on gloves with only slightly trembling fingers.

She eventually gave her rings to Kitty. And her friend had the good grace to look confused at the gift.

* * *

"I love you, you know."

The confession is surprising, especially since the last hour or so of their date at the local bar had been spent nursing cheap beer and watching the television in silent horror. But there's something in his voice that makes Rogue think he's sincere, and she turns away from the television—something about counteractive forces being developed to deal with the mutant _problem_—to look over her shoulder at the man sitting on the bar stool next to her.

The date had been her idea. To get out of the Mansion, maybe shoot some pool. Have a few beers. Pretend like he was still her committed boyfriend and that she wasn't an indeterminate amount of time away from becoming poisonous. Get away from that darkening blanket that was covering them.

Bobby had agreed. And they had shot pool. And had a few beers. And he'd even kissed her on the forehead, an arm wrapping around her waist with only a second of hesitation. And it felt like maybe there was the possibility at light at the end of the tunnel for once. That Alcatraz, the Cure, and Dr. Grey hadn't left them all behind to suffocate.

But then someone had asked the bartender to change the channel from the football game to the local news. The pool cues were put down, and the pair of them were drawn back into that black hole, that uneasy, syrupy feeling of being in quicksand and having nothing to grab.

Rogue looked at her boyfriend- was he her boyfriend? What were they?- and the only response she could muster was a confused frown, "What?"

Bobby smiled, but it was thin and since when had he started looking so…so _Scott, _"I do. And whatever happens…" his hand reached out to grab her own, gloved one. And Rogue closed her eyes. Because it always came back to that elephant in the room, didn't it? "It doesn't change things for me."

Rogue looked up at him, meeting his blue eyes with her own brown ones. Trying to see an answer in them, not sure what she was asking, "We know what's gonna happen."

The smile fell from his face, and his grip tightened on her fingers, "Maybe. But…I know things haven't been the best, back at the Mansion," and she sees Kitty on his face just as clear as if it'd been stamped red on his forehead, but he juts his chin at the television screen above the bar, "And I think things are only going to get worse. For all of us."

Rogue has to look away from him then, and away from the television. Which leads her to staring intently at a bowl of shelled peanuts placed in front of her, because it was _that _kind of bar. Rogue took a second to mentally blame the absorbed psyche of Logan's running around in her head, the same psyche that taught her what snooker was and which end of a cigar to cut off before smoking.

And she still feels Bobby in her head, too, from that time in Boston. From all the times after it, before the Cure. So she knows he means it, when he says it. But those words still shouldn't feel an awful lot like being dumped.

"How'd we get here, Bobby?" She asks the peanuts.

He looks away from the television to look at her, and she can feel his desperately hopeful stare, but she doesn't look away from the bowl in front of her. "I don't know," he admits.

She lets her gloved thumb run over his knuckles, "I hate admitting it, but I'm scared."

"Me too."

The television cuts to another puff piece. The news scroll at the bottom of the screen says something about re-instating a military contract from the 1970s with a supposedly disbanded production company. Trask Industries. Rogue's never heard of it.

The bartender swings by to pick up their bottles, but he pauses, staring at Bobby like he's seen him before, like he's making his mind up about something.

"You're from that school, aren't you?"

And that gets Rogue looking up from her peanuts. She sees the tension coil around Bobby's shoulders, feels his hand withdraw from hers as he looks the bartender straight in the eyes and keeps his tone cordial.

"Yeah, a mile or two from here."

The bartender leans forward, and Rogue doesn't like that look in his eyes, doesn't like that it's getting sent in her direction now too, "The big one? With the gates, right?"

"That's right."

The bartender snorts and the noise makes a few other patrons look over. Rogue feels her stomach start to twist, and she shifts in her seat. "Is it true what they say?"

"What who says?"

"About the muties. You got muties there?"

And the bar is silent. Deadly silent. The quiet before thunder. She feels sick.

Rogue discretely puts money on the counter to pay for their beers. Bobby gives her an infinitesimal nod.

"Xavier's is a prep school, nothing more," he hedges, standing and waiting for Rogue to do the same. When she moves, he throws an arm protectively over her shoulders. As a pair, as a team, they start walking towards the door.

Rogue doesn't look back, but she can hear the bartender clear as day behind them.

"You freaks just stay behind that gate, you got it? Keep the animals in the zoo!"

Bobby's arm doesn't leave her shoulders. And Rogue doesn't comment about the frost forming on the lapel of her jacket as they begin their way back to safety. Tries not to notice Kitty's wounded look at the contact when they walk back into the Mansion.

* * *

Someone blows up a community center.

Though calling it a community center doesn't seem right. Because most community centers Rogue knows don't do what that place was doing. They don't host mobs in their basement. They don't beat teenagers who had done nothing wrong other than use their power at the wrong time. They don't call themselves Friends of Humanity but endorse the harassment of anyone whose only difference from them is an invisible chromosome that they can't see or fathom.

It's not a community center. Not really. It's a place where people who hate people like her go to congregate. It could've grown into something worse- a base, a detention center, or a prison.

Blows up isn't accurate, either. The news says arson. And that word puts an ugly pit in her stomach, a stabbing of something that can only be called grief. People, trapped in a building, and burned down with it. And Bobby's expression shows that even if Rogue's doubts can't be confirmed about what caused the fire, they aren't unfounded. They might not be separate from John.

The authorities don't find the culprit. But they blame the mutants. And the media doesn't see a difference between community center and base, of non-profit organization and hate-group. In the weeks that follow, a burned down community center is joined by an exploded hospital, a disintegrated government office, and a pro-registration congressman is assassinated by a burst of kinetic energy from two hundred yards away.

It sparks off a witch hunt, and all fingers are pointed at them.

Two months after the community center, registration becomes mandatory for mutants and the use of powers in public avenues becomes illegal.

* * *

Rogue's powers manifest in her sleep. She's fully clothed (because they can't take chances now, can they?), curled against Bobby in bed when her shirt accidentally rides up and his hand grazes across her side.

She's dreaming about snowboarding, of teasing her younger brother and building her first snowman when his convulsions wake her.

She screams. And it's David all over again. It's David all over again and she's screaming for help, for someone, _anyone _to do something as she tries her best to hold her boyfriend still without touching him. Until someone who isn't a powder keg can hold him still instead.

* * *

The next morning Bobby's physically fine, if not unnerved and exhausted, and finds her curled up in the corner of the library. When he goes to touch her gloved hand she flinches and yells at him to get the hell away from her. Her eyes are red.

Bobby stays nearby, but follows her wish. And after five attempts of saying it's okay, really it's okay, and an hour of sitting in awkward frustration as she refuses to look at him, he leaves.

* * *

Rogue is dry-eyed and alone when she registers. The line at the DMV is boxed in by police escorts, and checkmark after checkmark is entered as she files everything in detail, in triplicate.

The attendant sneers at her before he takes her paperwork and gives her a new driver's license. This one has a thick, black **M **below her name.

* * *

An unarmed mutant is shot by a policeman. It's unclear if they were actually robbing the gas station, but the judge ruled the murder justified since a new legal clause states that any mutant is an armed mutant.

The robber was a sixteen year old, stealing Mountain Dew and some condoms.

Riots happen in the mutant's hometown within an hour of the verdict being made public. Sixteen people are thrown in jail, and a local policeman sent to subdue the riots is killed by a regular, old-fashioned human with a handgun in the confusion.

* * *

A week after registering, Rogue can finally admit that she is avoiding Bobby.

* * *

Another Friends of Humanity building is burned down.

* * *

A month later, Bobby and Rogue finally admit to each other that maybe it's best to take a break. Until things settle.

* * *

The graffiti and the vandalism to the Mansion has spread to the grounds. To the memorial benches and plaques. And Rogue sits with Logan in a furious silence in front of the tree they had planted for Dr. Grey, wrapped in toilet paper that should be harmless but instead feels like a knife in the ribs, stealing breath from her lungs.

* * *

By the time the Sentinels finally come, they're down to twenty students at the school, with six faculty and a Logan. And it's nothing like Stryker. Theresa is killed when a wall is torn from the side of the building, crushed by a support beam and concrete. Artie is torn from his bed by metallic cables.

Rogue tries to help where she can. She works with Piotr to get the remaining younger students out first, borrowing his metallic form long enough to help him clear out the debris in front of the hidden panels. She registers Kitty phasing others through the floors, out of harm's way.

But it's too fast. _They're _too fast, and Xavier's has been dealt many hard blows over the years, but nothing can prepare a handful of students for something like _this. _

Rogue remembers Stryker's men. How they moved like ghosts, how her and Bobby and John and Logan had managed to get out. She sees her own fear in the younger kids' faces, and Rogue reminds herself that this time _she's _the grown-up. She's the X-Man. And she's getting them out.

She's helping Piotr clear the last dorm room when they're suddenly surrounded by the things. Four, then five, then six. And Rogue hears the protests of several psyches ricocheting around her skull as she tells Piotr to take Victor and Alisa and _get the hell out of there. _He refuses at first, but when she threatens to drain him dry afterwards he reluctantly takes the children and runs.

Rogue puts up a good fight. But she's outnumbered. And Piotr's powers are temporary.

A robotic hand extends towards her as she staggers from a blow given by another Sentinel, and Rogue can almost make out the sound of Bobby and Logan screaming her name, her _real _name from down the hall. Lord, she hopes they're not stubborn asses and that they just _go. _

The fingers wrap around her, tightening and emitting some kind of high-pitched wail that makes black spots form in front of her eyes. She's lifted off the ground and the wailing grows louder, making everything else around her go white noise and static. And as Rogue finally loses the fight to retain consciousness, she hears one final word, hitting her like a nail on a coffin:

**APPREHENDED. **


	2. An Ending: Pyro

**Part One: An Ending  
_Pyro_**

Somewhere in Boston, Massachusetts. **  
****One week following the Sentinel attack on Xavier's**

Squatted apartments don't get cable. Or the internet. And though he wouldn't trade what he could do for anything, after his fifth apartment without a phone line or electricity, Pyro's finally starting to get the advantages of telepathy. Because burning down a building isn't as persuasive as manipulating memories, and arson doesn't get you a working cell phone.

It does, however, help a guy rob. He imagines he should feel bad about it. The process of holding fire up to some dude's face and watching him practically piss himself as he forks over his wallet. But he doesn't. Not when he's had more taken away by pathetic pieces of shit like _humans._Not when he had to break himself out of prison. Not when he's a supposed god among insects but he can't afford to get a fucking computer running. Not when he's been living in a squatted apartment, sleeping on a mattress with no bedframe, and eating his daily packet of Ramen noodles for the ninth day straight.

Being a fugitive and alleged "terrorist", it turns out, doesn't come with the glamorous packaging that accompanies boot-licking and being a boy scout. He fell for that trap the first time- the fancy curtains and the dormitories and someone always telling him to settle for less and labeling it home. He'd rather take the shithole apartment, because at least it can't pretend like it's working when things are falling apart at the seams. And for now, until the Cure runs out, until Magneto's back at the helm, it's good enough to sit in squalor and wait.

…Good enough, but not easy. As with awkward silences, Pyro's never been an expert hand at patience. Something a few of those pathetic Friends of Humanity clubhouses can attest to. Magneto might be down for the count at the moment, but Pyro's more than capable of sending out his own messages. Burning down community centers is like throwing spit wads at moving trains, but it's _something._And anything's better than sitting in the dark, literally and figuratively, since fugitives can't sign leases or pay electric bills legitimately.

So as an acolyte without someone to follow, a lot of Pyro's time is spent trying to gather intel as effectively as he can. Which, it turns out, is not that effective at all since, again, he doesn't even own a computer. But Pyro'll get information like a fucking pilgrim if it means avoiding exposure. Because the world's falling to hell, but he's not giving up. The Cure is failing more and more cowards every day, and it's only a matter of time before he sees a headline screaming MAGENTO AT LARGE. And when he does, he needs to be ready. So a routine's developed.

The morning where it all starts going to hell starts out like any other morning. He takes his lighter—while he was in prison his flamethrower was _confiscated,_like he's a kid caught with a porno mag at summer camp—makes sure it has enough butane, scrounges up a few bucks, and buys as many newspapers as he can. When he gets home, he throws the copies on the kitchen counter that's currently serving as an impromptu office.

His place barely looks lived in, and the kitchen is no exception. There's nothing but empty lighter fluid bottles, a few Salvation Army-grade pieces of mismatched dish sets, and a stack of yellowing newspapers and fliers for the bullshit Friends of Humanity meetings. Research. _Homework._

Pyro continues with the morning routine, the same one he's had for a few months now. He pours two-week expired Cheerios into a beat to shit Flintstones bowl. And with a sigh, he pulls out his second-hand barstool, sits, and rhythmically shovels cereal into his mouth like logs onto a furnace. Fuel, not food. He cracks his knuckles, rolls his shoulders, and the hand not gripping a spoon like a shank absently flips his lighter open and closed as he reads.

His eyes scan the headlines.

Click. Click.

Something about a new amendment on the Registration Act. **Click.**

Regressed Cure rate is now up to an estimated 77%. Up six percent from yesterday. Click.

Mutant terrorist outfit discovered at a boarding school in upstate New York. Cli…ck.

Pyro's chewing slows as he drops the spoon and his lighter, both hands gripping on to the newspaper and folding it over to reread the bottom half.

**MUTANT TERRORIST THREAT NARROWLY AVOIDED! CITY COUNCIL TO THANK TRASK INDUSTRIES**_A mutant military force was discovered underneath the foundation of a New York preparatory school last week, outfitted with several combat simulators as well as fighter aircraft-_

He swallows the remainder of the Cheerios, which suddenly taste less like cardboard and more like sawdust.

_-public may rest assured that the base was dismantled, with several terrorists taken in to custody-_

A hand drops to grip his lighter again. Clickclickclickclickclick.

_-although a high alert has been issued as many mutant fugitives believed to still be at large-_

He turns the page. The lighter in his hand gives off a spark, igniting into a flame that crawls up his arm. Pyro ignores it, eyes trained on the page intently.

_-While most members are not accounted for, the following are confirmed residents of the alleged Institute who have resisted arrest and are wanted immediately for questioning:_

_Ororo Munroe__  
__Robert "Bobby" Drake__  
__Katherine "Kitty" Pryde__  
__Piotr Rasputin_

_In addition, warrants for the arrest of the following mutants have been issued based on prior affiliation with the terrorist cell:__Allison Blaire__  
__Elizabeth "Betsy" Braddock__  
__Lorna Dane__  
__Henry "Hank" McCoy__  
__Kurt Wagner__  
__Warren Worthington, III-_

The fire spreads further up his arm.

_All individuals are extremely dangerous, with alleged Brotherhood connections, and are_**_not_**_to be approached by civilian forces. Please contact your local-_

The newspaper bursts into flames.

Pyro watched with a sneer as the paper curled into itself, eyes staring intently as the edges went charcoal black and the fire flared. Before the paper was entirely incinerated, the stark words of the headline stood apart from the smoldering print around it- a black reminder before it, too, vanished in the small inferno.

**MUTANT TERRORIST**

Pyro watched as the fire spread to the counter, crawling out and searching for fuel, tendrils of flame wrapping around stacks of fliers, of newspapers, of magazine clippings, eating everything in its wake. He watched numbly, doing nothing to stop its progress—he had disconnected the smoke detectors months ago.

Serves them right.

They didn't join up with Magneto when they had a chance. They had protected the weak, and now it had bit them in the ass.

He hoped they had torched the place.

The flame from his lighter spreads to the plastic lighter fluid bottles. They reek as they're melted into the counter, small bursts of flaring up when the fire consumes the remnants of their contents.

That's what happens, when people tried to handle shit with kid gloves. They underestimate how desperate humans can get. They want to _talk_and talking got you nowhere but a cell or a cute memorial tree.

The fire roared as Pyro slams a fist on the counter, the flames parting for his hand.

Stupid assholes. They should have _acted._And now they were dead or on the run. Pyro didn't have any doubts about that. Those _things-_what was being called a _task force_- they were going to kill any mutant they saw. Because that's what weaker things did- they huddle in the corner and lash out at the hunters. And the holier-than-thou _X-Men_found out the hard way that prey can bite the hand that feeds them. Good. _Good._

He flipped the top of his lighter. Flipped it closed again.

Pathetic. That's all they were. Pathetic boy scouts, and it was probably better that they were out of the picture. The humans did them a favor, getting rid of the passive mutants. Now the rest of them would see how _compassion_was rewarded. They wouldn't sit twiddling their thumbs while humans made Terminators to hunt them down.

He inhaled, and smoke stung the insides of his nostrils.

…There were _kids_ there. He remembers a few of them. Paige, Jono, Angelo. Little, obnoxious shits that he'd been stuck babysitting more times than he cared to. Because Marie and Bobby were the Upstanding students, and they were Setting Examples and he was always along for the ride-

The shrill of the building's fire alarm sounded off.

Pyro felt his fingers clench down into fists. His lighter snaps open and something- _click-_ clicks into place.

He knew Bobby was on the list of the ones that escaped. Bobby, Kitty, Piotr…was there a Marie? Fuck, why couldn't he remember? Why did he even care? If she had actually taken the Cure she wasn't one of them anymore. She'd turned her back on her own kind. Let them have her and play lab rat-

The sprinklers went off, but the fire was already roaring in protest, flames starting to lick at the ceiling.

It had gone Storm, Bobby, Kitty…Marie? Storm, Bobby, Kitty, Piotr…_Fuck._Why couldn't he remember the order?

In the distance, there was the muted sound of sirens. Like from an ambulance. Or a fire truck. Pyro flipped his lighter again.

This wasn't his problem. It wasn't his _job._

He sneers and stands up abruptly, the barstool toppling over and falling into the circle of flames surrounding him. Clickclickclick.

Whatever. Fuck it.

Pyro grabs his jacket, looking around and noticing that the fire from the newspaper has spread beyond the kitchen, torching his mattress and the spare room it was held in. Smoke rolls in waves by the door to the building's hallway, no doubt getting sucked out into other apartments, other hallways. He sends the efficiency apartment a dismissive, detached glare before turning towards the door. Let it burn. He was sick of this shit hole anyways.

He stalks out without turning back.

Being a telepath might have earned him a better place, but being what he was meant he could always run without leaving evidence.

The fire trucks sped passed him as Pyro walks along the city street, not sure where he's going. Not really caring.

It's a bad morning.

* * *

He smells like smoke and he imagines they're going to start looking for an arsonist eventually, so Pyro settles on sitting at a bar in a crowded casino. Blue curls of cigarette smoke drift past the god-awful overhead lights, showing how thick the shit is in the air. It's good enough for a few hours, and it's easy to pawn a few chips off unsuspecting old ladies and cash them in for lunch. The burger tastes just as bad as the Cheerios, but in a different way. Greasy. But he keeps a hood over his head and people leave him alone while he eats it and it's good enough.

They have the TV on. The volume's muted, but the subtitles roll in black text boxes towards the bottom of the screen. It's a talk show. Two idiots in ties, one red, one blue. Screaming at each other across a table.

Blue Tie: We have American citizens being detained without being read their Miranda Rights-

Red Tie: _Terrorists._We have _terrorists_in _prison,_where they belong.

Blue Tie: The American people have a constitutional right to a trial-

Red Tie: The American people have a right to be safe in their beds!

"Hey, the game's on channel three!" Barks a man down the bar line.

Pyro's fingers are running over the lighter in his pocket. It'd be so easy. So fucking _easy,_to burn this place down.

The television switches over to a football game.

Pyro eats his burger and leaves without paying.

* * *

He burns down three more buildings that week: an old library, a house with white picket fences in suburbia, and a warehouse.

The house belonged to a high-ranking member of the Friends of Humanity. The library was where they'd print their fliers. The warehouse he burned down because it was empty and he felt like it. Because he was drunk. Because he couldn't remember what names were on that fucking list. Because he really, really didn't give a shit if one in particular was missing from it.

* * *

The weeks go by, and things get worse.

Not that Pyro's anywhere near surprised about it. Things always get worse. They allow it to get worse. More and more mutants go off the grid- arrested, detained, or simply gone. The Cure inches closer and closer to that 100% rate of diminished returns.

He's been scanning the papers. They don't have Magneto. They don't have Mystique.

They _do_ have a full list of the escaped fugitives from Xavier's, however. It's common practice now, to have a Muties Most Wanted section in the classifieds of every major newspaper. He's even seen his own name come up a few times. But, no matter how many papers he buys, in how many cities, he's never seen _Marie d'Ancanto _in print.

Pyro always imagined grief to be a sharp, raging force. Pain was. Anger definitely was. He doesn't know why this is different, but admitting that Rogue's probably dead leaves a dull, uncomfortable throb—sometimes it's pushed back, sometimes it's forgotten, but it's never something that's _gone_.

* * *

He hates her. And Bobby. And the rest of them. They played by the rules and now they're dead for it.

* * *

The Cure's estimated failure rate is now at 92%.

The new President has signed a bill that classifies mutants as something called "secondary citizens". In addition to mandatory registration, work permits have to be approved, and the "incident of Xavier's" has them spooked enough to ban mutants from owning businesses, running schools, or operating in government positions. Not that it matters anyway, since the only openly mutant politician was Hank McCoy, and he disappeared from public eye four months ago.

* * *

Hank McCoy is not seen on television again until two months later, when someone hacks into a government network channel, and puts footage of his death into circulation on the emergency broadcast system. The film is grainy and probably from a surveillance camera, but it's clear enough. It shows McCoy, in a suit and holding a briefcase, being surrounded by Terminators—Sentinels-as he walks to his car.

The fucking moron had put his hands up in surrender, hadn't even put up a fight. It took about thirty seconds to fry him. And someone patched it through to national television.

The entire country gets to see Hank McCoy murdered in cold blood. On loop. For about twenty minutes, before it's pulled. It's genius. Pyro can practically see Mystique's fingerprints on it. The human news tried to cover their tracks, tried to rationalize the attack, but the damage is done.

All that rage, all that simmering hostility, bursts open like a blister and the mutants take to the streets. There's riots, there's retaliation. It's beautiful, uncontrolled violence and it gives Pyro a sick satisfaction to watch Boston get torn apart by mutants. By _betters._He joins in. He laughs and burns everything the fuck down until he hears Sentinels descending from the sky.

Then he runs, but not before incinerating three of them. The dull, uncomfortable throb recedes for a while as he watches them burn with a slightly manic gleam in his eyes.

Hank McCoy actually did something for mutants with his ability to roll over and die: he finally created an open war.

* * *

The Cure's rate of failure reaches 100%.

Pyro's tired of being patient.

He burns down four more buildings and kills eleven more Friends of Humanity before the human scum get close enough to do anything about it. Then he kills six police men, and explodes three cop cars.

They manage to catch him on camera this time. Somewhere outside of Chicago, a police video surfaces of him standing on top of a cop car, throwing pillars of flame at anyone who's close by. He grins as they scream. One cop, a young man, manages to get passed the wreckage in order to approach him. He can see the sweat beading on his forehead as he holds the gun at him, ready to shoot him. The fear in his eyes.

"Put your hands up."

Pyro extends a hand to one of the cop cars instead. It combusts, "You know, the last time I did this-" another car explodes, rocketing into the air in a shower of smoke and sparks, "-it was only a mutant who could stop me. "

"Put your hands up, _now_!"

Pyro turns to him and sneers, raising both of them up, high above his head. The cop's too scared to shoot him. He can see it. Rookie, probably. Probably never fired his weapon in the line of duty before. Idiot.

"So I guess it's too bad you're killing off the weak ones first, huh?"

Pyro winks.

And the cop has just enough time to scream as the smoldering flames that surround him swell to an inferno, growing and over lapping where he stands. Pyro rolls his shoulders and drops his arms.

It's the cop's fault.  
He should have just shot him.

As he walks away from the scene, he's reasonably sure this one will make the national news.

* * *

It does. Pyro's mugshot from his prison time after Alcatraz is plastered all over the television. They start interviewing people from his hometown. Old teachers, mostly. A neighbor or two. They even track down his piece of shit dad, who he hasn't spoken to in over fifteen years. He looks just as drunk and worthless now as he did then.

_"Johnny always had a problem with authority-"_

_"Didn't have a lot of friends-_"

_"Knew he was one of _them _the second he started attending our school, I think he was six or seven at the time-_"

_"Loner-"_

_"Deranged-"_

Somehow, exploding a few cop cars has made him a public face. They start connecting the incidents of arson against the Friends of Humanity. They start giving him credit for buildings he didn't even destroy.

For the humans, _Pyro _becomes synonymous with _fear._

He sits in a mutant-friendly bar in New York, watching with a smirk as his father slurs all over the two or three coherent memories he has of the son that torched the house down when he was seven.

* * *

He finally gets his contact. But not from the person he expects.

As he returns to that same bar in New York, a blonde in a tight, blue dress takes a seat next to him. She's older, maybe in her late thirties or early forties, but she's hot as hell and Pyro is already suspicious. People don't sit next to him in _this_ bar, least of all attractive women. People know he's never in the mood to chat.

"Buy me a drink?" She asks, with a coy tilt of her head. Her smile is all teeth. And Pyro feels something that could be relief for the first time in ages.

"What do you want?"

"Anything strong."

That's not what he's asking. So he orders her a water. She looks at him with disapproval in her eyes and he shrugs.

"Fighting against the man doesn't have a steady paycheck, you know."

She allows a small grin, but her face is already dropping the façade. Gone is the leggy blonde, out for a younger man and some dancing that evening. Instead there's a cold, remote snake wearing her skin, coiled and ready to strike out at any moment.

"For someone so popular, you've been difficult to find."

"Don't have an address or a-"

"Or a cell phone. Land line. Credit card. E-mail. I'm aware."

She sips her water.

"So he's back, then?" Because he's got to be back. It's the only reason she'd be here. Because she might've been pissed that they left her, and he doesn't really blame her or Magneto for that, but she ratted them out. The keel was even.

Her eyes narrow slightly, "Is that why you think I'm here?"

That throws him. Pyro leans back, looking at her in confusion, "Why else would you-?"

"Yes, Erik is back," her lips thin, and he sees her blue eyes flicker a golden hue, "With Charles."

His stomach feels like it's dropping. That dull throb makes itself known in his chest. "That asshole's dead."

She sends him a look so poisonous he feels his jaw go a little slack, "We've always made a habit of underestimating Charles," she turns back to her water, and if Pyro thought Mystique was anything but a ruthless killer he might be tempted to say she looked nostalgic, "Idealistic of us, maybe."

The surreal feeling is replaced almost immediately with anger, with fury, "So, what? You're trying to tell me _Magneto _of all people decided to throw down the dorky helmet and-"

"Yes."

Her tone is so cold, so removed, that Pyro knows she's telling the truth. That Magento's joined up with _him._With the boy scouts. With the people who let their school get torn up by Sentinels. Who sat by and did _nothing _but _babysit _the enemy as it found new ways to kill them.

"I don't believe you."

"Yes you do, Pyro."

Fuck. He _does._He does believe her. And he's never been so _pissed off _in his entire life. Because he _waited, _like a fucking latchkey kid, for Magneto to come back. To get his powers, and grind the humans into the dirt. Instead, he's buddying up with the same asshole they tried to kill a few years ago. The one that wanted them to sit on their fucking asses, twiddling their thumbs while the Sentinels ripped _kids _out of their school.

Pyro lets out a ragged breath and his hand reaches into his pocket-

"Before you burn the place down in a tantrum, I have a proposition."

-his fingers brush the metal case of his lighter, but he stills them. Mostly to prove that he's not going to throw a fucking _tantrum._"What."

She folds her hands on the counter. Her back is tense, rigid with anger. And the two names fall off her tongue like drops of acid, "Graydon Creed."

Graydon Creed. The leader of Friends of Humanity. The bastard who helped revive the Sentinel project. The asshole whose thugs regularly kill mutants in the street for doing nothing but what they were evolved to do.

She has his attention.

"What about him."

"I know where he is."

His heart starts to drum in his chest. His palms sweat, "Yeah?"

Mystique sends him a sidelong glance, "Are you satisfied with burning down clubhouses, Pyro?"

"No."

"Then let me suggest the beginning of a new Brotherhood."

The smirk spreads up his face like kindling curling in a fire.

"Yeah. Sure."

* * *

They're joined by two others. A fat, shifty son of a bitch named Dukes, and a solemn asshole named Petrakis. He doesn't bother getting friendly. They're cannon fodder, it's practically stamped on their faces.

Mystique has a stronghold, and it's nice. It's really fucking _nice,_a penthouse with multiple beds and cable and an entire room that's dedicated to the assassination of Graydon Creed.

It takes about two weeks to case. To figure out the security details, infiltration options, and where they're going to set up Mystique's sniper rifle during the rally. But it feels right. It feels like making a difference. He gets a new flamethrower.

Pyro stays up late the night before the assassination, staring at the black and grey surveillance photo of Creed tacked on to the bulletin board in Mystique's study. Looking at every inch of his smug face, so he knows who to burn first if Mystique misses.

He doesn't hear Mystique enter until she pointedly closes the door. And then she walks over to him, silently crossing her arms over her chest as she rests on the table he's leaning against. Her eyes follow his, stilling on the picture of Creed.

"I ran tracking systems on the Sentinels," she says after ten minutes of silence have passed by, "And downloaded their transport archives."

Pyro looks over at her, not sure where she's going with this, "So?"

"There was a Marie d'Ancanto on the transport list. For three days. Then the name was deleted."

He closes his eyes. His fingers curl against the table top. That's it, then. That's really fucking it, isn't it.

"She had potential," Mystique comments blithely, and he knows that's as close as she'll get to sympathy. But then her tone takes on a distant quality, like she's recalling a movie she's seen years ago, "Before Liberty Island, I ran a background check on her. For Erik," she slides forward, standing, "Her mother's maiden name was Adler. I knew her grandmother."

"…What the fuck are you talking about?"

Mystique looks up, and whatever weird spell she's under is over as she straightens. The mask settles easily over her face, and she starts to walk away, "It's too late for the fallen. But this war starts to end tomorrow. Go to sleep."

Pyro snorts.

The door closes behind her.

He's not sleeping tonight.

* * *

Mystique misses.

The bullet hits the body guard who jumps in front of Creed instead, sinking evenly into his chest. The same body guard that Petrakis was supposed to take out and replace. But that doesn't happen. Because someone blew the whistle before it could. And Pyro trips over Petrakis's corpse in a hallway as he tries to get past the crowd to the stage. It's face-down, but the back of the head leaves no room for imagination as to what killed him: a crushed skull.

Dukes. It was fucking Dukes. He was Petrakis' back-up, and now Petrakis is pummeled dead and Dukes is nowhere to be seen. Once Creed was out of the way, Pyro was going to find and kill him, roast him like a spit pig.

But Creed needs to die first.

It's pandemonium as security surrounds Creed, creating a human shield. But Pyro doesn't care. It doesn't matter. Let there be twenty guards. Forty. A hundred. He'd burn them all down. He hears bullets whizzing by as Mystique tries a few more sniper shots before she has to bolt from her spot in the balcony, and as the security detail return fire.

Pyro ignores the bullets. He walks towards the stage in a calm anger, fingers clicking on the igniters under his sleeves. This is it. He's done. _He's dead._He's going to kill Graydon Creed.

The fire explodes from his hands, shooting out towards the crowded circle of guards. He hears people screaming around him, terrified as they run out of the audience hall like rats on a sinking ship. He hears the guards cry as the fire consumes them, tongues of flame snaking around their bodies and tightening like boa constrictors.

Pyro leaps up onto one of the tables, jaw clenched in concentration as he pushes the fire forward. It doesn't matter if he gets caught this time. Creed is burning today. He can feel exhaustion taking over his body as more and more guards come, shoving Creed towards a back room and further away from the reach of his flamethrower. Pyro cuts a path with his fire, giving chase as quickly as he can, and he's doing it. For all their guns, and tasers, and whatever other pathetic weapons they have, the Friends of Humanity are no match for even one of their own.

He's probably managed to kill a dozen or so before the Sentinels land.

Two, then three, then four. They surround Pyro and he screams bloody murder as he hurls fire ball after fire ball at them. But they're not what he expects. They take the fire like it's _nothing, _absorbing the force and extinguishing it. One lets out a wail- a high-pitched siren that makes him feel suddenly, violently nauseous and he staggers.

It's enough for one of them to grab him in a thick, metal cable.

To hit him on the back of the head.

He goes down.

* * *

Pyro wakes up and he's tied to a metal chair. There's a desk in front of him, a shadowed figure sitting across it. A solitary bulb shines in the ceiling with no cover over it, the bright light giving him a pounding headache as he tries to reorient himself.

The shadowed figure speaks. It's a man.

"Who are you working for?"

Pyro groans, his head rolls back.

"Who ordered the hit on Graydon Creed?"

His eyes focus, slowly. The shadowed figure has the silhouette of a man in a suit.

"Allerdyce."

His hands have handcuffs on them. The igniters have been taken off his wrists. His neck stings like something bit him.

"Who. Ordered. The hit."

Pyro snorts, and manages to spit despite the dryness of his mouth, "Fuck off."

The shadowed figure shakes his head and closes something- a file? – "Useless. Bring in the next one."

He feels something hit him on the back of the head again.

* * *

When Pyro wakes up, his head is still pounding, his neck stings, and his left arm hurts so much he can barely twitch his fingers. He groans, cracking open his eyes. This time there's no solitary light bulb, no shadows at all. Everything is _white. _Stark white. Blinding white. And the way his head's feeling right now, it's like shining a flashlight into a mirror and being told to stare at the reflection. He closes his eyes, taking a long inhale through his nostrils. He wants to barf. The inside of his mouth tastes like disinfectant, and it doesn't take a genius to realize he's been drugged.

A few more deep breaths, and he tries to open his eyes again. This time he can keep them open for a few seconds longer. He repeats the process again and again, until he can finally look around and get his bearings. He feels sick as shit, and he knows whatever they injected him with is still floating around in his system. His vision has black spots creeping in. He probably won't be able to retain consciousness for long.

And he can't move. He's practically paralyzed, laying belly-up on a hard- _white, Jesus fucking Christ-_floor. It has some give underneath him, like lying on a trampoline or something. His eyes travel around, moving in quick flickers with his pupils overly dilated. Everything looks blurry.

He really, really wants to puke.

So he tilts his head to the side, and he does. It's a dry-retch that brings tears to his eyes. Once it's done, he moves his head back up to look at the ceiling, still unable to move. His watery eyes trail down to look at his arm. It's purple and red and fucked up looking. There's a large swell on his forearm- a small mound of his own flesh that looks agitated but not infected.

It looks like an implant.

Pyro's heart beat intensifies, and he turns over to retch again.

Tagged. He's fucking tagged like he's in a zoo. Like a deer in hunting season.

He needs to get the hell out of here. His eyes dart around, taking in the white ceiling, made of the same material as the floor. There's no furniture- no desks, no chairs, no bed. Even _Alcatraz_ had furniture in its cells.

The walls are see-through, and look like some kind of plexi-glass. And that's when he notices he's not alone. There's _rows_of these fucking things. And some of them are occupied.

He musters all the strength he can, and forces himself into a sitting position. The motion makes his vision flood with black, and he almost topples over again. Pyro swallows, and it tastes like the sugar-coating of pills and tacks. Fuck. _Fuck._

He looks into the cell to the left of him. A kid's sitting there. Scrawny. Mop of curly hair. He's familiar.

The kid turns, as if sensing his stare, and looks back at him. He doesn't say anything, and he doesn't smile as he slowly sticks out a green, forked tongue.

It clicks in his brain. Artie Mad…something. The brat who transferred to Xavier's a few months before he left.

Artie's wearing a white jumpsuit, and Pyro looks down to see he's wearing the same thing. He wants to be sick all over again, but he's sure if he attempts another retch he _will _pass out this time. And he can't pass out. Not until he figures out where the hell he is, and how to get out of there.

"Where am I?" He growls.

Artie only shakes his head. And Pyro is about ready to torch him until he remembers that the kid's a mute. Typical. He opens his mouth to ask again, like it'll make a difference, when he's cut off by a quiet, Southern drawl.

"Looks like you're finally awake."

Pyro inhales sharply. He knows that voice. He knows that voice anywhere. Artie points across from him, and Pyro's head slowly follows the gesture.

Rogue's sitting in the corner of her own cell, across the hall from his. She's hunched in on herself, with her knees pulled in to her chest and her eyes trained down on the hands folded on top of them. And the first word that pops into his head is _cowering. _She's cowering like a dog that's been kicked too many times, and now just wants to duck out and stay unnoticed. It pisses him off.

And his anger must have been somehow communicated in the space between them, because her shoulders bunch up more. Pyro doesn't know what to say, so he glares at her instead. The spots are starting to flood back into his vision, but he doesn't care.

"Did you come here to kill me?" she finally asks, tugging idly at the material of her gloves but not taking them off. And pointedly not looking at him. He wants her to look at him. He wants to be sure she's real and that he's not going crazy.

Pyro's eyebrows furrow down into a crease of confusion, "No," because what the fuck kind of question is that, "You're supposed to already be dead."

Her lips twitch, "Sorry to disappoint."

The words tumble out before he even thinks about why he's formed them, and they're raspy from whatever's been pumped into his system, "I like being disappointed."

Rogue tilts her head up then, and he meets her gaze. She looks like shit. Paler than normal, which is an accomplishment in and of itself, with purple bags under her eyes and overly chapped lips. There's a question in her eyes, and her lips are parting as if to voicelessly say _John-_

He won't give her the chance, and snarls, "You're still a traitor."

And then, like the stubborn ass that he is, his body chooses that moment to lose consciousness before she can get a word in reply. And it all goes dark as his head slumps over and hits the white floor of his cell once more.


End file.
